


More Precious than the Winter Sun

by indulging_inaccuracy



Series: One Summer More [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Lovesickness, M/M, Mild Language, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-02
Updated: 2017-08-09
Packaged: 2018-12-08 10:56:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11645133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indulging_inaccuracy/pseuds/indulging_inaccuracy
Summary: Two days before his eighteenth birthday, Yuri Plisetsky had come to an unfortunate realization: he was absolutely fucked, and had probably fallen in love.





	1. A Drop, A Lurch, and a Dip

**Author's Note:**

> Or: Yuri Plisetsky Falls Hard, Falls In Love Harder, and Almost Kills His Russian Teammates
> 
> Thank you, V, for editing this, and for reminding me when I needed it most that people don’t always have to run at 100%. And to Vina: our boy will be okay, and so will we.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Or: Yuri Plisetsky Falls Hard, Falls In Love Harder, and Almost Kills His Russian Teammates
> 
> Thank you, V, for editing this, and for reminding me when I needed it most that people don’t always have to run at 100%. And to Vina: our boy will be okay, and so will we.

Before his senior debut, Yuri Plisetsky never thought the Four Continents Championship would hold much relevance for him, let alone that he’d take valuable time from his schedule to attend.  There was no real benefit when he couldn’t even go as a competitor, especially with Worlds always looming a month and a half away.  

The past few years had given him two reasons to watch the competition in person, but it would be a herculean task to get Yuri to admit he was there to see Yuuri Katsuki (and by extension, his eternal barnacle of a coach).  He’d be much more candid, though, if asked about the second skater he had come to support.

Unfortunately, the aforementioned barnacle caught him just after the medal ceremony and dragged him off the press area despite repeated protests of “Quit pulling me” and “I can walk by myself, fuckwit.”  He would have gone to see Yuuri to congratulate him on yet another silver, eventually, but he had another target before that. 

He scanned the crowd as they went, hunting for that second reason’s face among the masses.  A thin silver lining to shooting up almost a full head two year’s time was that could see over the crowd with ease, but fate decided he wouldn’t need that advantage.  A huddle of reporters suddenly dispersed, and Yuri had a clear, uninterrupted view of the man he’d been looking for.

At some point between the award ceremony and when Yuri had been whisked away from the stands, someone had given Otabek Altin a large Kazakh flag, likely to hold above his head as he left the ice.  He still had it by the corners, but was carefully lowering it into his coach’s hands.  Something caught the light as he turned: the gold medal, resting proudly on his chest.

Camera flashes still made his friend wince on reflex, just slightly, but those that knew where to look would see a joy clear in his features that made him practically glow, even in the room's harsh fluorescents.  His frame had filled out a bit more as of late, particularly in the shoulders; the end result was a robust, well-balanced figure, one that could elevate many a skating outfit into magnificence.  This one didn’t need the help, but Yuri hardly took notice.  Such was the brilliance of its wearer, that he could easily outshine swarovskis. 

Thoughts buzzed in Yuri’s head, most of them involving words like amazing, breathtaking, beautiful, unfair--

And as his feet caught beneath him: _Oh, shit._

If he hadn’t been distracted, or dealing with the change in proportions that came with growth spurts, or moving forward with momentum that wasn’t his own, he might have had enough time to react and simply stumble a few steps.  Unfortunately, none of these factors were in his favor, and he hit the ground face-forward with a loud, indignant “Fuck!”

A small commotion ensued, mostly because Victor lacked any form of subtlety as he asked if Yuri was okay.  Anyone who could understand Russian would have had the privilege of catching a particularly venomous “Of course _now you_ let go of me, you traitorous bitch!” if they were within earshot.  Yuuri, alerted by the initial noise, understood just enough as he approached to descend on Victor, demanding to know what he had done.

“I didn’t do anything!” Victor pleaded, sounding truly heartbroken at the accusation.  His fiance ignored him and helped Yuri to get upright.  He looked just a little stunned, like he was unaccustomed to hard collisions with the floor that weren’t on ice.    

But gradually, anger fused with mortification, edged toward the boiling point, and nearly hit it when another voice hit his ears.

“Yura, are you okay?”

The heat of shame was replaced with an ice-cold wash of mortification as Yuri turned to find Otabek hovering over him.  His tone was filled with such earnest concern and his eyebrows were knit with so much worry, and both only served to amplify Yuri’s own building distress.  His heart sickeningly dropped into his stomach; a feeling alien to him made it lurch back up to his throat.  When it dipped back down into his chest again, it was like its pounding reverberated through his entire body.

“Yura?” Otabek repeated, reaching one hand forward.  His fingertips stopped just short of Yuri’s forehead, lingering there for a brief moment before the hand dropped into an offer of assistance.

“I-I’m fine,” Yuri managed weakly.  It was a flimsy lie, and the biggest he’d ever told.

\---

A week later, Yuri Plisetsky wondered if he was dying.

St. Petersburg winters were brutal and the colds that circulated even moreso, but whatever plagued Yuri was far worse than anything he’d ever come down with.  Chest pains he could deal with, even unrestful sleep or a severe deficiency of it.  But lack of appetite was new concept to him, especially in comparison with his recent teenage eating habits. Fortunately, he was stubborn enough to power through and make sure he kept his calorie intake high, even if chewing sometimes made him feel sick to his stomach.

It was the mental symptoms that were truly awful: a dull persistent dread, constant tension, an almost complete inability to focus.  He wasn’t sure how to broach the subject to someone, or even if he felt like discussing the problem with anyone.  What was worse, he couldn’t bear the idea of talking about it with Otabek, and Yuri had told him some of his worst insecurities with little trepidation.  Although he couldn’t pinpoint why, he’d rather let Mila pick his brain over a lunch date.

His predicament was severe enough that it couldn’t go unnoticed by those around him either.  If Yuuri and Victor had been around, they might have pestered him with enough worry that he’d be too irritated to maintain that state.  But as it stood, the couple was celebrating Valentine’s late, hopping along the Pacific Northwest in a mid-season rally before buckling down for the final stretch.

And so, it was Yakov and Lilia who watched their protegee suffer, wincing as he committed an edge violation for the fourth time that day.  Both barked out their criticisms in turn and shared matching sighs of exasperation as Yuri tried to shake off the error.

“Someone has to tell him,” Lilia remarked.  Her tone was harsh, but Yakov could see the smallest shimmer of sympathy in her eyes.  “Young love is a disaster, but he’ll only recover if he breaks that heart of glass and tempers it into one of steel.”

Yakov had never been one for metaphors.  “You don’t temper glass into steel.”

“Quiet.”  It was punctuated by the sharp pain of a stiletto heel digging into clothed flesh.

“Gah!  Never!  I almost lost one skater to a lovestruck whim, and the airhead’s STILL off frolicking when he should be focusing!  I’d sooner let Victor melt his medals into a second ring than let that happen again.  Especially now.”  He paused his rant long enough to shout at Georgi about arm position, then continued.  “If he ignores it, he could get over this before the Championship.”

Lilia side-eyed her ex-husband, then shook her head, incredulous. “Yakov Feltsman,” she said, “You are an absolute fool.”

And so Yuri continued to force his way through practice; the focus of skating at least somewhat centered him, while idleness left him uneasy.  He would have spent more time on the ice than off if he had his way, but both coaches were intent on keeping him as physically well and rested as possible.  Even when the lovebirds returned to the nest shortly before the end of the month, Yuri was spared their affections when one was hit by frost-fueled jetlag, and the other came down with a nasty cough.  Peace reigned at the rink in the form of routine, even if there was turmoil in his head.

He spent another week in this cathartic refuge before taking his first step towards wellness, and even then it was hardly more graceful than his tumble two weeks prior.  Another break had been forced upon him, so his lanky frame took up most of a rinkside bench as he tried to relax.  Thumbing through his Instagram feed helped him pass the time, but he didn’t really pay attention to the images until a familiar flash of color caught his eye.

He hurriedly scrolled back up, and the drop-lurch-dip of his heart was back again, even more nauseating when he was horizontal.  The timestamp meant little; Yuri knew immediately the photo was from the middle of the month, at the Four Continents Championship.  It presented a different view of that same holy vision, maybe from a little earlier than when he had caught it the first time.

Otabek Altin stood with his back to the camera, and the flag he held was positioned just low enough to offer a peek of the embellishments that glittered across his broad shoulders.  His face was handsome in profile, but then, he was always handsome, from his sculpted cheeks to the firm lines of his mouth, his strong hands and--

Yuri’s phone hit his collarbones with dull thump before clattering to the floor.  Softly, he uttered a knowing and defeated “Oh, shit.”

Lilia heard despite the meter or so that separated them, but her once-sharp “Language, Yuri,” had become mild and automatic over time.  Only half a moment passed before she blinked, squinted, and eyed her charge with suspicion.  She recognized that tone.

It was the sound of the phone’s impact that Mila noticed, and Lilia’s reaction that she keyed in to.  “What’s today’s date?” she asked tentatively, eyeing them from a few benches away.

“The twenty-seventh,” Georgi replied as he relaced his skates next to her.  It took him two more tugs and twists to stop, turn to Yuri, beam, and point at Mila.  “Hah!  Before the end of the month, and no hints!  You owe me lunch.”

And just like that, after two weeks of listless suffering, Yuri Plisetsky was back.

“I AM GOING TO SKIN _BOTH OF YOU ALIVE!”_  

Yakov acted fast to make sure Yuri couldn’t make good on his threat, but it was hard holding the wiry teen back while simultaneously yelling at the other two problem students to not run in their hard guards, god so help him it wasn’t his fault if they dulled their blades. Yuuri and Victor entered to a chaotic symphony: no fewer than three screaming voices (the loudest of them Yuri’s) set to the background accompaniment of Lilia’s long I-told-you-so soliloquy.  

“Home, sweet home,” Yuuri deadpanned before shifting gears.  “Um, Coach Yakov?  We’re back.  Uhhh.  Hi, Yurio?”

“Well, this looks lively!”  Victor’s cheer was genuine, and when Mila jogged up to hide behind them he asked her, “So, what’s the party for?”

Her earlier displeasure over losing her bet had been clearly overridden by an adrenaline high.  “Yuri’s got a crush,” she giggled.  

Victor’s “Wow!  Really?” drowned out part of Yuuri going, “Wait, I thought he was dating O--already.  Dating someone already.”  Part, but not all, and those were truly the last straws.  Any immediate response to either was lost under Yuri’s outraged vows that all of them would soon be six feet under. 

Two days before his eighteenth birthday, Yuri Plisetsky had come to an unfortunate realization: he was absolutely fucked, and had probably fallen in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second chapter already finished and set for next Wednesday! Stay tuned for “Yuri Plisetsky Recovers, Panics, and Reevaluates Love as He Knows It”
> 
> This has actually been in the final stages of editing for months, not because it took a long time to edit but more because I put it on the backburner 90% of the way through. Oops. At least it's done?


	2. Warmth and Protection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time to get wrecked, Yurio

Epiphanies notwithstanding, competitive skating waited for no one.  The ISU World Championships were approaching fast.

Yuri’s focus returned quickly and beneath his outbursts Yakov was plainly relieved.  There were still mistakes, of course, but they were less from distraction and more what you’d expect from a teenager still not accustomed to his own growing body.  He switched up the subjects of Yuri’s training to account for that and intensified it on the whole once he was sure rest would be taken when ordered.

It was Yuri’s ballet instructor however, who would have the most pertinent words for him.

A week into March Yuri stood off the ice as he battled with a knot in his hair.  It was getting long and prone to tangling at the ends; whenever it threatened to pass his sternum, he knew it was time for a trim.

He absently registered the distant clack of high heels on tile, tapping out a precise rhythm until their impacts dulled on rinkside rubber.

“Yuri.”  Lilia’s voice was close; behind him, even.  He peeked over his shoulder to give her a questioning hum.

“Sit down, child,” she told him, pointing at the row of chairs nearby.  

Freshly eighteen and very aware of it, Yuri frowned but knew better than to mouth off.  He pulled a chair into the open and seated himself just as water sloshed somewhere behind him.  His comb and elastic were exchanged for the bottle Lilia passed forward, and the teacher went to work.

She dampened the finer wisps at his hairline with a handkerchief and used the comb to smooth and section, prepping for whatever style she had in mind.  Her hands when the actual braiding started were efficient and firm, sometimes moving fast enough that Yuri winced on reflex.  He sat still regardless; the ritual was one he knew well, one he took comfort in.

Yuri had also become accustomed to Lilia’s poetic lectures, which were prone to start on the slightest embittered whim.  “Long ago,” she began, “mankind tamed fire for warmth and protection.  But fire, when mishandled or used with ill intent, can also destroy.  It can kill.”   He had a sinking feeling he knew where this one was going, and hoped it wouldn’t turn into an epic.

“And cliched as it is, love is fire.”  Even if Lilia saw Yuri’s grimace, even if she acknowledged the metaphor was a used one, she had already gained too much momentum to be stopped.  “It’s pain and destruction.  Love brings you together with foolish people.”  She paused.  “Love makes you do foolish things.  Love begets regret.”

It didn’t end there.  The longer she went on, the more Yuri wanted to commandeer an ice floe in the Baltic and never return.  But he didn’t dare attempt an escape: Lilia was still briskly tugging his hair in alternating directions.  Just as he debated between one death and another, Yuri was met with a surprise.  

“But love is also warmth.  It is protection.”  Her voice was as sharp as ever, but her grip might have softened, just a bit.

“Love can bring you joy.  It can bring you people you will treasure, and who will treasure you in return.  You know love in its unconditional form.  To love a partner is of neither less nor greater importance, but it is different.  You must have conviction, patience, and understanding.  And even then,” she warned, “that type of love doesn’t always hold up to hardship, or time, or even the mundane.  Prepare yourself for that possibility.”

He heard the decisive snap of elastic; Lilia was done.  Right as he patted his hair to feel how it had been braided this time, his teacher rounded the chair and placed a hand on either side of his face.

“You will get through this,” assured Lilia, “And you will be stronger for it.  If you can’t, you are certain to get nowhere at all.”

Yuri stared up at her, something he’d done rarely in the past year.

“Understood?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said.

“Good.  Now, back on the ice,” she snapped, taking the water bottle again.  “I don’t care if you’re growing, we _will_ clean that footwork up by the Championship.  You are not some ungainly ostrich; God so help me, you will be as a _crane_ before the month is out.”

Yuri rose to his feet, his face calm and his gaze steady. “Yes, ma’am.”

Even with renewed brutality as a key factor in Yuri’s training, breaks were easier to deal with after that.

Mila teased him endlessly once she didn’t have to keep quiet for the sake of her bet.  Georgi wasn’t much better, or maybe he was worse; Yuri couldn’t quite tell.  He zoned out whenever the romantic idiot tried giving him advice, especially after he had called that unfortunate moment in February “a Valentine's Day miracle, Yuri being felled by Cupid’s arrow.”  Yakov hadn’t been quick enough to keep him from roundhousing Georgi square in the ass, but the coach’s lecture was a legendary chew-out.

Victor was a nuisance, as he had always been, and as he would probably always be.  He had fresh taunts to pelt at Yuri whenever there was a mistake or even just a nitpick with an element in his performance, and he used them with great enthusiasm.  Each was met with the usual “You’re not my goddamn coach!” but as always, Yuri took every criticism to heart.  He was inching closer to Victor in height and silently, begrudgingly admitted that the champion’s advice would be more relevant than ever.

But it surprised him that Yuuri Katsuki gave him space; maybe it shouldn’t have.  Yuuri no longer had a clean injury record, and that shaved precious time off what little he had left to compete in.   He focused on his training with a new intensity that almost intimidated everyone else, an impressive feat in Saint Petersburg.   

Despite this, it was clear that practice wasn’t all Yuuri thought about.  Twice a week, he’d pass Yuri a packed lunch in the middle of the day.  It was always homemade katsudon, and as they ate together, Yuri would thank him for the food and decline to comment on how the chef’s own lunch was vegetables and leaner meats.

\---

Life was a blur after the spring equinox.

The lobby in the official hotel bustled with skaters and their coaches checking in.  Just like back in February, Yuri found himself scanning the crowd for a certain familiar face.  Passing his screaming fans outside had ramped up his nerves; they hadn’t bothered him before, but their screeches put him on edge now, and the irrational unease only frustrated him more.

Large hands suddenly gripped his shoulder and it took all of Yuri’s self control to not punch their owner as he spun. He immediately regretted that restraint.  

If Yuri had previously thought there was no one at Worlds he’d have more reservations about seeing than Otabek, then a grievous miscalculation had been made.  Or rather, a loud, boisterous, grating miscalculation.  “Yuri!  It’s been so long!” 

Jean-Jacques Leroy gripped his target in a swift bear hug, then dodged back out of reach before he could be shoved away.  He’d gotten smart, or maybe just lucky.

“Could’ve been longer,” Yuri gritted, making a point of brushing invisible filth off his arms. 

 He blinked and realized something, then spoke before he could think better of it.  “The fuck have you been?  What happened to your free skate last month?”

JJ’s face lit up, and Yuri couldn’t decide if he wanted to punch the Canadian or himself more.  It was true; JJ hadn’t been present for the latter half of the Four Continents, even before Yuri had taken his monumental tumble.  If he had, Yuri would have never heard the end of it.  

But he should have left it at that realization, and not have given JJ a reason to think he cared about his presence.  “You NOTICED!  That’s right, you were there to watch!”

“Yeah, everyone but you.”

“Oh, don’t be shy.  Did you miss me?  Medical dropout; it’s a long story but I--” JJ’s eyes focused somewhere past Yuri.  It took all of another word for his complexion to blanch and his smile to droop.  “I’ll… tell you another time.”

Yuri screwed up his face in confusion, turning to see what sight had silenced JJ of all people.  He didn’t get any farther than “The fuck’s wrong with--” before seeing precisely what the fuck was wrong.

“Beka,” he breathed.  With what air, he wasn’t sure since all that was in his lungs seemed to have disappeared.

Otabek was a little slower to react, squinting around Yuri’s shoulder for a moment more before facing his friend properly.  His face softened as he did, warmth entering his eyes and a slight curve sneaking across his lips.  He was still beautiful and it was still terrible, that all too familiar pain clawing at Yuri’s chest.  “Hey.  Are you checked in already?”

Was he?   _Crap, oh crap._  But his fingers gripped a sleeved key card, his savior in that dark time.  “Uh, yeah,” he mumbled, reading the numbers on the envelope just to have something to do.  “Ninth floor.”

Surprise flashed across Otabek’s face.  “So am I, that’s convenient-- well.”  He pursed his lips.  “If we want to talk after practice tomorrow.  Or something.”

“Or something,” Yuri echoed, not really hearing the words over the roar of his pulse in his ears.  Of course now of all times JJ was quiet, right when it would have been ideal to have someone else carry the conversation.

But Jean-Jacques Leroy was gone.  Yuri jerked back when he realized the space next to him was empty, and surprised himself by barking out a laugh.  Otabek’s innate ability to make JJ scarce had worked its magic again.

“Damn, every single time,” he admired.  “How do you _do_ that?”

“Do what?”

“You know,” Yuri prompted, gesturing at the floor.  “Wait, no shit?  That’s not on purpose?”

Otabek raised his eyebrows and shrugged, the perfect picture of bewilderment.  A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth; Yuri erupted into laughter.  Otabek’s facade broke into a chuckle and the tension melted away faster than JJ had seemingly vanished into thin air.

“I don’t get it, I just squint at him and he’s gone.  Did I traumatize him or something?” 

“Don’t let it bother you,” Yuri insisted, still wheezing a little on the edges.  “Actually, keep it up, whatever it is.”

“Who’s bothered?”  Both of them snorted at this, but while Yuri struggled with a fit of the giggles, Otabek carried on.  “My stuff’s getting delivered to my room.  You?”

“Same, why?”

“Perfect.  Let’s get dinner.”  He cut a path for what Yuri assumed was a side exit and made a beckoning motion with his head.  “I’m starving, and I feel like we haven’t talked in forever.”

“Man, tell me about it.”  Yuri followed after him, but only made it one, two, three long strides before halting, frozen by a chill that started in his chest and raced across his whole body.

It had been a month and a half since Yuri and Otabek last saw each other in person.  Had they, over video or through text or through anything, spoken once in that time?  Yuri was consistently the one to initiate conversation, but Otabek always replied without fail.  Had he messaged his friend a single time since February, even though the young man had filled his thoughts almost nonstop?  

_Oh fuck, oh **fuck **,****_ ****he fretted, _I didn’t even realize, Beka must’ve thought I didn’t wanna talk to him, or I was mad at him, or that I didn’t care about him, or that I--_** **

********

********

The crowds were thinner there, so it must have not taken Otabek long to realize the other skater wasn’t close behind.  And if JJ had gotten lucky, Yuri was cursed, because Otabek turned around just in time to see a single tear roll down his cheek.

Something in Yuri processed that he was being pulled by the hand, forward at first and then a sharp left down a side hall.  Lobby noises filtered through the entryway into the corridor, but it was otherwise quiet and deserted.  It was here that Otabek let go of Yuri’s hand to gently take his upper arms, and that Yuri regained enough of himself to comprehend what had just happened.

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he lied when Otabek inevitably asked what was wrong.   _Don’t cry, you idiot,_ he willed himself, _You piece of shit, don’t you dare fucking cry.  You promised you wouldn’t when you left Moscow and you only broke that promise ONCE, maybe twice.  Don’t make it a habit now, don’t cry._

“Yura, it’s okay, you were busy.”  Otabek made a valiant attempt to be reassuring, but the way he almost read Yuri’s mind only shook him further.  “We were both busy.  It’s all right.  I was training so much I hardly noticed.”  It was Otabek’s turn to lie, in that last bit; Yuri saw it in the set of his mouth, the slight twist it did whenever it couldn’t form the words it wanted.

“I missed you,” Yuri confessed, and it was with another pang in his chest that it dawned on him: he really did.  “I missed you so much.  I’m so sorry, Beka.”  That truth had been the lone stopper containing his tears, and now that it had popped out into the open he had no choice but to let them overflow.

“Shhh, it’s okay.  It’s okay,” soothed Otabek.  Tender hands brushed the hair out of Yuri’s face and tucked it behind one ear.  Though his vision blurred, Yuri could see that the corners of his friend’s eyes were glistening, too.

That was what broke his final bit of restraint.  He threw his arms around Otabek, burying his face in one broad shoulder.  In the back of his mind, he noticed he had to angle his head a little oddly to do so, or hunch slightly.   _Oh.  When did I get taller than him?_

He felt pressure against his back as strong arms came up to circle him as well.  Fingers clutched at the fabric of Yuri’s jacket, and a thick shock of hair tickled against his cheek.  Warm air pushed its way through clothing: Otabek, taking a long, shaky breath.

They would have stayed like that until their tears were spent, but the threat of being intruded on joined forces with the nagging pull of hunger.  That combined power was too much to ignore.  The two left through the side entrance as originally planned, and let a maps application lead them to dinner.

\---

“Ah.  Nine-oh-eight.  This is it,” Otabek affirmed, checking the envelope in his hand.

Card keys were issued here as a formality; all the locks were new, the type you could activate with a smartphone.  Otabek tried it and it worked, earning matching oohs of appreciation from both him and Yuri.

“Okay, wait here.”  Otabek opened the door cautiously, testing to see if it would creak or groan.  “Coach says his jetlag’s been getting worse this year.  Middle age or something.”

Yuri shuddered and made a small sign of the cross; his friend had to press a fist into his mouth to stifle a laugh.  He disappeared behind the door for a minute and came back holding a small wrapped box barely larger than his palm.

“It’s almost a month late,” he admitted, pushing his hair back from his forehead, “but happy birthday.”

“Oh.  Thank you.”  Yuri took the package with consideration.  It was very light but rattled slightly, like whatever was in it wasn’t secured very well.  He undid the bow and picked at the tape carefully, habit from being taught to save nicer paper as a child.

Beneath the wrapping was a nondescript necklace box.  Inside that, there was a folded square of paper and a measuring tape, the type Yuri associated with boot fittings.  He picked this up and let it uncoil and dangle like a limp snake, and twisted his face in confusion.  Otabek smiled, grabbed it by the loose end, and said, “Hold still.”

Yuri obeyed and let Otabek take the tape completely.  He was getting readjusted to casual touch quickly and was proud of it; his heart only pounded a little when the tape wrapped around his head and knuckles brushed against bare skin.  Otabek recited a number out loud as if to remember it, then repeated this when he measured down the front and back of Yuri’s head.  

“Okay, you’ve lost me,” said Yuri.

“Just a second,” requested Otabek, repeating the numbers out loud again.  He pulled his phone out and presumably tapped them in.  “Hm.”

“What?”

“Based on the measurements, I can conclude,” Otabek said gravely, “that you are pig-headed-- ow.”

Yuri had whapped him on the shoulder with an open hand.  “You’re lucky!  I’m!  You’re friend!” he hissed, jabbing him lightly in the arm with each break.  Otabek held the measuring tape up like a protective talisman, and Yuri shook his fists in a parody of a boxer’s stance.

“Okay, sorry.  Serious this time,” he insisted. “Now.  Open that.”

“That” was the paper Yuri still held, nearly forgotten.  Unfolded, it was a printout of a map not unlike what they had used to find dinner earlier.  Yuri recognized it as Saint Petersburg and the surrounding areas, marked with colored dots that seemed to cluster in the city proper.  He gave it another once over and glanced up at Otabek.

“Those are shops that sell motorcycle gear,” he said as if it explained something.  

It didn’t, and Yuri cued as much tilting his head to the side.  Otabek smiled and continued.  “I wanted to do this sooner, but--”  He shrugged and glanced all around, and Yuri nodded.  Worlds.  “My spare helmet fits you pretty well, but if you keep riding with me, you should have your own.”

Yuri wondered if the “with me” was intentional.  He didn’t ride with anyone but Otabek, and he had no plans to.

Otabek was rolling the measuring tape up again, considering each number as it passed through his fingers.  “I want to get you something nice, something that’ll hold up if we ever need it, but you should be there to pick it out.  So I can get you something that fits your style.”

There was an unsaid meaning in that and Yuri wanted to be sure he didn’t misinterpret it.  “You’re visiting?”

He nodded.  “Is the end of June all right? I’ve been in northern Russia in the summer before, but I was too young to make much of the White Nights events.”

“You can stay at my place,” Yuri said quickly, maybe a little too hastily.  He had finally moved out of Lilia’s at the start of the season, but practice was all-consuming and he was still unpacking.  But if it meant Otabek didn’t have to worry about the expense of a hotel, Yuri would go into overdrive to make the place presentable.

An odd look crossed Otabek’s face; his full-faced smile after was genuine.  They had once been rare and were still more precious than the winter sun, but Yuri noted he had been graced by many that night.  “Thank you.  I’ll get to see your cat again.”

“Mm, the Imperial Furball.”  They both laughed at that.  The measuring tape was passed to Yuri, and he placed it back in the box with the carefully refolded paper.  “Pick whatever flight works for you,” he said, “and we can plan from there.”

“Coach Yakov won’t mind?” asked Otabek.

“Yakov can su--” A pause.  “Yakov can deal with it.”  In truth, he was more concerned about what Lilia would have to say, but after the customary lecture she just might oblige.

“Right. Late June, then?”

“Late June,” Yuri promised.  “We’ll start the summer off right.”

\---

By mid-April, the season of truly dark nights marched slowly toward its annual finale.  In those fleeting moonlit hours, Yuri Plisetsky lay awake in bed, contemplating what he’d do now that his competitive season was done, capital D.

The World Championships had ended without much to show for them.  Neither Yuri nor Otabek had placed where it mattered; it was frustrating, but not cataclysmic.  They were both still young, still healthy, still strong.  There’d be other chances to overthrow the pantheon like the new gods they were.

More pressing in his mind was the map and tape measure tucked carefully away in his desk drawer and the promise of a summer reprieve from the rigors of off-season training.

But after that?  Then what?

He was in love with Otabek Altin, hopelessly head over heels for his best friend, and he had come to terms with that.  Like Lilia had warned, he was even preparing himself for the possibility that Otabek might not love him in the same way.  His chest still hurt a little when he thought about it, and his heart beat a little faster in anticipation whenever his phone buzzed with a new message.  But food had regained its appeal at some point and it was only sometimes that he lost sleep thinking about that brilliance that outshone swarovskis. 

Romantic love was new.  It was painful and it was scary, but Yuri Plisetsky never looked away when afraid.  He found focus in the feeling, now that he knew its form. 

Where would he go with it?

Summer felt far and simultaneously all too soon, too early to let this love out into the world.  He could live through the emotional wringer that visit during White Nights would put him through, days of biting back all the words he couldn’t say.  The time he spent at Worlds with Otabek wasn’t awful, after all.

And above all else, Otabek was his friend: decisive, earnest, mostly serious, and sometimes just a little bit stubborn.  He could be reckless when he felt like it, impulsive enough to take a rival athlete on an impromptu motorcycle getaway, twisting through narrow alleys in an unfamiliar city.  He was private to an almost uncompromising degree, but he gave so much of himself to those he let close.

To Yuri, filial love was warmth and protection: a tender embrace after too much separation to bear, and making sure one another was safe as you sped off together into the night.  Romantic love could wait one summer more, even if it hurt.

The inspiration that snapped him out of his sleepy reverie, though.  That couldn’t.  He rolled over on his stomach and dragged his laptop from the desk.  

By the time twilight washed across the screen, its processor struggled with a concerning amount of tabs. There didn’t seem to be any order to them, and their titles were varied and spanned several languages.  But if each page was opened and their contents examined, they’d mostly gravitate towards one of two topics.

One: the flag of Kazakhstan and its customs, symbolism, and history.

The other: various painters on the western edge of Russia.  Specifically, ones who did commissioned pieces and specialized in working on leather.

Yuri avoided setting a specific timeframe for the project, should something go wrong despite all the planning in the world.  But October held promise: a hectic month of competitions, with an important birthday on the thirty-first. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I finished writing 90% of this back in? March??? and it was stuck in post-editing purgatory until I finally had little enough self-consciousness about it to just post the damn thing. If you enjoyed it, you can also check out [Crystal and Burgundy](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10595307), a Lilia-centric fic mostly taking place after this one.
> 
> There was a lot I wanted to cover in this fic, but the most important was conveying the emotional rollercoaster that’s falling in love with a close friend, especially when you’re not sure if they love you back in the same way. And then, thinking back to how the creators mentioned Yuri becoming a person who’s open about needing and being needed by others, I wanted to explore that as well, with things like Yuuri’s small gestures and Lilia’s stern but heartfelt advice. 
> 
> Otabek crying was a surprise to me, too, but it felt right. He’ll probably get better about being the first to text sometimes, from now on. These two have a long way to go, but they’ll make it.

**Author's Note:**

> Second chapter already finished and set for next Wednesday! Stay tuned for “Yuri Plisetsky Recovers, Panics, and Reevaluates Love as He Knows It”


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